Plans Vs. Faith

From 1 to 2, Wilbur planned to sleep. From 2 to 3, he planned to scratch itchy places by rubbing against the fence. From 3 to 4, he planned to stand perfectly still and think of what it was like to be alive, and to wait for Fern. At four would come supper. Wilbur had gone to sleep thinking about these plans. He awoke at six and saw the rain, and it seemed as though he couldn’t bear it. “I get everything all beautifully planned out and it has to go and rain,” he said. (Charlotte’s Web, E.B. White)I know you’ve been waiting with bated breath to hear more spiritual ramblings. I won’t keep you in suspense. Lately, I’ve been pondering PLANS. I’m quite skilled at making plans, ask me, I’ll tell ya. I have always had a plan for my life. ALWAYS. For as long as I can remember, I’ve known what needed to be done that particular day, week, month, year. And that’s not all, the far future was mapped out too. Let’s just say I could always knock ‘em dead at interviews during the dreaded, “Where do you see yourself in 5 years? 10 years?” questions. Why? Because I had the answer. I mean, I KNEW where I would be, it was all in my plan.
Certainly, I’ve always believed God has a master plan. I just figured I was lucky that MY PLAN matched so well with HIS plan for my life. In fact, how wonderful (extra crown jewel for me!) I was making things so easy on God! You know, already having everything mapped out in advance. Then He wouldn’t have to spend so much time orchestrating the events of my life. Because, HELLO, I’d already done such a nice job figuring out what ought to happen… God just needed to bless my plans!
I’m administratively gifted. (Read into this: obsessive, neurotic, anal.) I am the type of person who has lists of her lists, typed out on Excel spreadsheets, backed up on external hard-drives. It’s how I’m wired. I suppose, sub-consciously, if I write down things in a systematic manner, and keep my surroundings orderly, that some sense of control is maintained in the midst of the unknown. In my mind, plans = control.
Along with plans, I’ve been pondering FAITH. Why the two? The other day a thought hit me like a ton of bricks: faith is the polar opposite of plans. I have been so busy making plans that I’ve kicked faith completely out of the picture. Upon realization, I begged forgiveness for my arrogance and hypocrisy. Seriously, how much vanity does it take to tell God I’m not interested in His plans? To assure Him my plans will work just fine, ask for His blessing, and think no more about the matter. And to top it all off, I’m very good at acting as if I have it “all together” spiritually. I know a lot of the right answers, I’m sure it appears I rely solely on faith for guidance. But this hasn’t been the case. At all. And the sad part is that I have been blissfully unaware of my lack of faith.
(Now, let me digress a bit, don’t confuse plans and preparations. I’m envisioning a reader showing up to class, without having done a bit of homework, claiming, “But Leigh said I should have faith! That having my own plans was wrong. That my homework will magically appear complete and correct!” I believe God calls us to prepare, and always work as if for God and not for man.)
Anyhow, God and I are working on this whole living by faith gig. And the crazy part (well, not so crazy…) is that it’s a WHOLE lot easier than trying to work everything out for myself. My responsibility is to immerse myself in scripture, and in prayer, and then to WAIT (and oh, I’m so bad at waiting, I want everything done yesterday!) for Him to point me in the right direction. But, you know what? I’ve gotta tell you I’ve never been filled with such peace.
I will ponder more later….

Shameless Love Story in Waffle House Paradise

The joint was decidedly not jumping, but that’s the way I wanted. All to ourselves on a Saturday night. The sky was a slate gray, threatening rain like a carrot in front of a donkey. The kids slid up onto chrome bar stools with bright red seats and looked down the laminated menus. We grabbed several sections of newspaper and the two seats beside the girls. Pretty rough looking customers, the four of us. Literally just having changed out of pajamas into shorts, shirt and flip flops. Bed head hair after a glorious afternoon of napping and reading. Hot chocolate, hot tea, Hi-C, sweet tea. Scrambled eggs, hash browns, everything on ‘em.
Our very pregnant waitress waddled toward the short order cook hollering: “I’m gonna need these scattered, smothered, capped, peppered….” The Bug and the Pea’s attention drifts to the Kids’ Page word search and heads bent together, they began to work.
“Honey, you gonna need some whipped cream on that chocolate?”
“Yeah” says the Pea as she circles a word, acting like she owns the joint.
“Yes MA'AM,” I correct, with an apologetic look in my eye.
The waitress grins, “Don’t worry, got three of my own at home.”
Despite the fact we’ve done nothing productive on this Saturday, the food we devoured would have satisfied an army of hungry soldiers.
The quiet is broken, the jukebox pipes in with a song. Startled, the Bug’s head pops up from her plate, in time to see a teenage boy stroll back to his booth.
“Just the jukebox, sweetie,” I say, mouth full of salsa covered hash browns.
“The what?” she asks.
I see the blank look in her eyes and I set down the fork. I. Am. Unfit. There are no other words that fit this moment. I look over at the husband who looks as stunned as me. How, in the name of all that is good, do our children NOT know what a jukebox is? Clearly, our parenting skills are slipping. I mean, seriously.
I slide off the bar stool, toting the kids along with me by the scruff of their little necks. I stood them in front of the jukebox and did some explaining...long overdue apparently. They gazed in bedazzled wonderment. I pressed the white buttons to scroll through the selection of choices. The Pea’s forehead leaned against the glass and the Bug’s jaw dropped near the floor.
See? You can pick from any of these songs! Oh look, they have Jimmy Buffet, “Cheeseburger in Paradise! I like mine with lettuce and tomatoes, Heinz 57 and French Fried Potatoes…” I grooved to the imaginary beat.
The Bug put her hand on my elbow, “Mama, please do not sing.”
Undeterred, I pointed to the Beach Boys, “Let’s go surfin’ now, everybody’s surfin’ now…” I added a little pizazz to the demonstration while balancing on an invisible surfboard. The Pea rolled her eyes.
I said, “You put in a quarter, choose the song you’d like, and then the whole restaurant hears it.”
The two 49 inch tall creatures shot like bullets over to their Daddy, a.k.a. The Keeper of The Money. Returning with quarters, the quest began for the Perfect Song. The Bug scrolled through the lists forward, then backward, then forward. The Pea shoved her out of the way and scrolled through the lists forward, then backward, then forward. This process repeated itself for several minutes while I drank my second cup of hot tea.
I walked back over to the jukebox, put in a quarter and typed in 3-0-0-6. I sauntered back to the husband and in true Milli Vanilli fashion, pantomimed Garth Brooks’ rendition of Shameless. The kids were not impressed. (Our waitress was…)
However, we knew the girls had struck gold when they shouted, “THEY HAVE TAYLOR SWIFT!” The two looked at each other in a moment of reverence for the singer “whose name shall be spoken a lot” at our house. The quarter clinked in, the buttons were pushed, Love Story blared. The Bug and the Pea sang like Rock Stars complete with air guitars. (There was even a bit of head-banging, which I thought a little peculiar for this particular occasion, but anyhoooooo.)
An older gentleman sitting alone, squelched a laugh and made a stellar effort NOT to shoot coffee out his nose as he absorbed the scene.
The cook headed for a well deserved smoke break.
Our waitress shared some mango flavored bubble gum, grabbed a menu, and danced over to the lone customer.
“Now, what can I get ya to eat?” she asked between chomps.
He replied: “I believe I’ll have what they’re having….”

Blue Bikes & Bumblebees

There’s something about a bike.
Your very own get-away vehicle even when getting away means pedaling faster than your little brother down the Avenue you call home.
To the end of the road where they are building a tiny new street with 3 houses.
No one lives there yet. The houses aren’t ready. One arrived on the back of a truck.
No one is ever home on this end of the street.
Or maybe they are and they just never come outside. Maybe they watch from inside.
One time someone walked down the Avenue and said, “Good afternoon young man!” to me.
But I am not a boy. Mama cut my hair, while I sat on a folding chair, under the acorn tree out back.
My secret hide out is behind the evergreen hedge.
(The pretty flowery bushes have huge fuzzy bumblebees, I’ve been stung before).
This blue bike looks like my first bike. It makes me smile.
The girls ride in front and lead the way, pedaling like pony-tailed Olympians.
CAR! I shout so they can hear with their helmets strapped on tight. Stay close to the side!
There is no real end to this street. It cuts through to the main bypass.
Construction workers zoom past on huge dump trucks and usually don’t stop at the stop sign.
I wonder who can buy all these new houses. Going up beside the deserted one. With papers taped on the door and waist high grass.
I wish they could bike down the Avenue. Right down the middle, arms in the air, safe and sound.
But this will have to suffice. I’m not taking this freedom away.
There’s something about a bike…